


A Hard Man Humble

by bold_seer



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cloak of Levitation (Marvel), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Existential Angst, Guilt, Loneliness, M/M, Moving On, POV Multiple, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Time Loop, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-08-01 15:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16286822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bold_seer/pseuds/bold_seer
Summary: “A loop like Titan?” Tony’s sensors are instantly on alert, hand in the air. Looking at different timelines, future after future after future that would now never come to pass. Enough to break a man, or his mind, if Thanos and his minions didn’t. That much devastation and death. “Red alert?”“No,” says Strange in a distant tone, caught in some memory. “It’s me. Stuck on the wrong track.” He snaps out of it. “It threw me towards –”You.





	1. Chapter 1

TONY 

The strawberry halves resemble hearts, cut open and paraded on a plate. They remind him of Pepper, who likes champagne but is allergic to strawberries, missing out on that quintessential experience. Foreshadowing the end before the beginning. More likely, it was saving the world that destroyed his relationship. The straw(...berry) that broke the camel’s back. Drifting apart over weeks or months, not years or decades. Not the way non-celebrity, non-superhero, ordinary Joes and Janes made a mess of things. Their will they, won’t they, on-off relationship has finally ended with a unanimous _they won’t_. Though it isn’t an unexpected conclusion, the breakup no longer an open, bleeding wound, a dull pain remains. A bruise.

So, when he hears a sudden sound from the kitchen, he knows it isn’t Pep. He has trained himself to not expect her presence at every turn, like an overeager puppy. It’s still a surprise when he looks up, just as a man falls through a portal. With a thud, he lands on the floor. A discarded thing, not a person.

For a minute, Tony is somewhere else. He sees himself falling through the portal, years ago, though he didn’t see it. He wasn’t even conscious half the time he was falling through space. On the ground, drained and powerless, he opens his eyes. Starts babbling.

He needs a moment.

Rising slowly from the floor, Doctor Strange looks around himself in confusion. In casual sweats, two shades of grey, no cloak, he appears much less imposing. Diminished, a bit lost. Ordinary. He could be any guy off the street, if any guy off the street fell through a portal and landed on the compound floor. Which reminds him - magic. Security isn’t equipped, but the tech is on Tony.

“What’s up, Doc?” Tony nods from his seat. “Where’s your four-cornered friend?” It’s an eccentric accessory, but Strange has that distinctive look. Tony has his suit. He is his suit, which forms around his body. The suit is him. It’s also a work in progress, evolving from crude and cavemanlike to nanotech and beyond. He’s always working on the next model. Improvements for himself. Improvements for Peter. Strange may have looked into the future, but he wore that shiny artefact around his neck. He lives in a Victorian building. He works in a monastery. Sorcerers don’t seem of this time.

Strange peers at him. “I don’t – at the Sanctum, I believe. Have we had this conversation before?”

“Ever?” Tony asks idly, toying with his food. He doesn’t know much about Strange, other than that the man was a Doctor, MD. Or - there are things he doesn’t know officially. A narrative he can create, piece together from medical journals, newspaper clips, hospital bills, a plane ticket - trail goes cold. Guy travels to Nepal to find himself, comes back with magic powers. There’s much he genuinely doesn’t know. Still, he doubts Strange is the type to fall into people’s kitchens. He has mostly skipped the reunions, wisely avoiding any new or old Avengers drama. After months and years, the leftovers are stale, inedible. Throw away and start anew.

“Ever. Today. At any time.” Standing tall before Tony, Strange stares into his eyes. He has an uncomfortably piercing gaze.

The spoon falls down with a clink. “Pretty sure not. Which definitely means definitely sure not. Six in the morning, one of us has got to be wrong.” It’s after twelve somewhere. It’s always after twelve _somewhere_. Like Kathmandu, or wherever Strange chooses to spend his days or nights. “Me? Might want to lay off that rice wine.”

“And what day is today?” Strange urges, not in the mood for games. “What day of the week?”

“Is this the part where I ask how many fingers?” The sentence takes a detour, comes out sounding more suggestive than he meant it to. Unless it’s Tony. It’s Tony. Everything must be boring and clinical to a doctor. He seriously needs to get out. Go out. “Want the year, month, date? Sunday.”

“That’s my fun day,” mutters Strange, clearly a fan of the 1980s, Wall Street and fingerless gloves. Or the 980s, give or take a millennium. Whatever era the robe or tunic he usually wears escaped from. The Middle Ages. Viking raids. He wonders if Thor and Strange are friendly. They have at least capes in common, but maybe that’s a red herring. Unlike Thor - unlike Steve - Strange belongs to this planet, this time, however he dresses, speaks or acts.

Tony frowns. What causes confusion? Concussion. Drinking. Various unpleasant medical conditions, he’s not the expert there. A more interesting question: why is the man who treated time like cheap costume jewellery suddenly so concerned about it? “If you are time travelling,” he wonders, forming the thought as he speaks. “Which is barely scientifically possible. And no, magic doesn’t get an invite. Is that back to the future? What’s past is prologue? Sorcerer exiled to the Island of – Manhattan?” Brave new world, seems about right.

Strange gives him a look that straddles the line between annoyance and appreciation. “You’re better read than you like to appear.”

“Ouch. You are dismissive, Doctor. Who reads plays, anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” Strange replies, a first for him. He’s on edge, tension written into his features, his brow, his mouth, but hides it well. Only, Tony knows anxiety. This is a man in control, out of control, clinging to the tatters. “It’s not a loop like before.”

“A loop like Titan?” Tony’s sensors are instantly on alert, hand in the air. Looking at different timelines, future after future after future that would now never come to pass. Enough to break a man, or his mind, if Thanos and his minions didn’t. That much devastation and death. “Red alert?”

“No,” says Strange in a distant tone, caught in some memory. “It’s me. Stuck on the wrong track.” He snaps out of it. “It threw me towards –” _You._

Huh.

“I could use your assistance,” Strange concedes, after studying him, searching for answers Tony is fairly certain he doesn’t have. A compromise between asking for help and demanding it. Except. Despite his degrees, magical sciences are beyond him. Unlike thermonuclear astrophysics, he can’t pick up that knowledge by pulling an all-nighter. And he isn’t used to being the assistant. He could play the charming, well-dressed diversion, while the magician works his trick. Before he quips back, Strange speaks in that low, commanding voice of his, “Hit me. In the face.”

“Ooo-kay.” Tony recovers quickly. He gets up, half-circles around the table, around Strange. “Are we doing a scene? Could do with more foreplay. Or a _please_.” Their exchange reminds him of the missing cloak, a separate entity from Strange, though who knows to what extent it does his bidding, slapping him at the cauldron, no capital letter, of – Tony doesn’t care.

“ _Please_ punch me in the face,” Strange asks, _tells_ him with forced patience. He is still frustratingly taller than Tony, which somehow adds to his arrogance. Steve is Steve, and Thor is Thor, but Strange is only a man. Superego, not superhuman. Sparks of magic, here and there. “Hard enough for some damage. Try to avoid causing permanent injury. Either way, I won’t go to court. Frankly, I can’t afford to.”

Right. Being an all-knowing specialist. An all-seeing sorcerer. No guarantee you didn’t end up flat on your back. “Scratch that. That sounds so much worse.”

It’s probable that Strange has looked equally unimpressed – at something, at Tony’s words, at Tony himself, at some point – but Tony can’t recall when. His first visit to the magical headquarters. The spaceship. Not his most gallant rescue, he admits. Strange cuts off his thoughts, remarking drily, “I thought you liked hitting things.”

“Sure. I also know the difference between things and people.” And robots, and AI, and aliens. And sentient pieces of fabric, away that they are from the action. “Basic requirement for a genius.”

Strange sighs, as if Tony is being unreasonable. For not punching him in the face? Strange priorities, ha. “If I say it’s for science.”

Self-harm for science, not a new one. “I’d be intrigued. You’re a bossy know-it-all. Not Hammer Industries insufferable, though. Not Captain America on a very righteous day. At least start by insulting me. Fought Rhodey, but he started it. And I was drunk. And dying.”

What’s with the oversharing? Not that Tony doesn’t let personal details slip. He certainly slips more into casual conversations than Strange reveals at the most crucial moments. A man’s strength isn’t measured by how much torture he can withstand, Tony knows that. He knows. Everyone has a breaking point. Looking at Strange, tight-lipped, he wonders how much pain the man would’ve suffered. Not for the Stone. Out of bullheadedness. To give it up so easily. Fair enough, Earth needed Iron Man, the Avengers working together. Against billions of lives? A temporary trade-off. Either Strange drives a hard bargain or he accepts awful deals. Bad investments. Which isn’t unlikely, top one per cent to pauper. There’s bluffing when you have a good a hand, and there’s bluffing when your opponent has four Infinity Stones up his gauntlet.

Strange wears his mask again: mild interest, some concern. Incredulity. It’s a wall. It’s extremely professional. Maybe everything reminds him of Pepper these days, or maybe a CEO and a doctor have that same look, but there’s a familiar feel of – _I see through your bullshit and I’ll call you on it._

They aren’t friends, exactly. They’re on the same side, but not team members. Not the way the Avengers are. Were. He doesn’t know what they are. They’ve fought together. Strange is one of the reasons Tony is alive. Tony is one of the reasons Strange isn’t dust. A spirit floating off somewhere. If the Avengers saved half the world, he provided them with the opportunity. Nothing Strange advertises widely, not after having played into Thanos’ hands. Inevitably? There was only so much he could do, caught between the dystopian futures his shiny rock showed him and the murderous fist of a genocidal giant.

Point is, there’s no reason for any animosity. They aren’t enemies. He’s not going to hit Strange. He wouldn’t hit Steve. Steve wouldn’t hit him. Probably. It’s all over and done with.

He may be intent on turning the other cheek before the first blow, but Strange doesn’t let his guard down. Doesn’t rein in his sharp tongue. “Your jokes are marginally better than mine. Or worse. Depending on whether your audience is seventeen – or older. I’d best you in any fight. My magic beats your tech. You’re a flashy version of the Man in the Iron Mask. Happy now?”

Nope. “You’re a second-hand version of Harry Potter, Strange. With second-rate insults. Pep’s said meaner things than that.”

They really have massive egos. Magic versus science could turn interesting. For, uh, science. If he didn’t have the sinking feeling science would lose round one. A verbal clash? Strange might have led them onto the right path, but when he isn’t projecting professional patience or making grand sacrifices, or precisely when he is, he’s avoidant, impatient, secretive. Type A personality, A for ass. Tony can think of at least a dozen ways to needle him. His former career. His accident. His lack of – everything. Friends. Money. Manners.

He doesn’t. Personal growth.

“Fine,” Strange huffs, anything but fine. Then, out of the blue, “I need a knife.” With an authoritative note, as though he’s been transported back into an operating room. Doctor, Nurse. But Strange recognises where he is. Considers his hands, the tremor. Thinks the better of it. “Or maybe not.”

Still. Worrying? “Do I need to call security? There’s an unpredictable man in my building. Looks to be in a stabby mood, unless someone gets to him first.”

A carefully blank expression settles on Strange’s face. “If I were a threat, Iron Man would take care of it. At least try. I wouldn’t harm you. Besides, you’ve done worse to yourself.” Strange eyes Tony’s chest with some scrutiny, turned into a cardiac surgeon. He doesn’t say, _to others_. Tony suspects that deep down, Strange is much nicer than he lets on. At least nicer than he acts around Tony. Peter likes him, but Peter is Peter. Too nice. Kid doesn’t know what’s good for him. It’s half a seal of approval. The rest? Tony hasn’t made up his mind yet.

And Tony has. He didn’t ask anyone else’s permission. “Why not magic it? They don’t teach you those kinds of spells at Hogwarts?”

Something in Strange, the tiniest tell, suggests Tony has no idea what kind of magic they practice over there. He only says, “It won’t let me.” Demonstrates by performing a number of complex movements. It resembles signing. Interpretative dance. Presumably, he attempts to achieve something. Nothing happens. There’s only a pair of mundane, scarred hands. He lets them fall in defeat. Magic can’t fix everything, then. Not even when you have access to it.

“Yeah.” Tony never thought he’d say this; Pep would laugh so much, if things weren’t strained and awkward between them. “Maybe good the safety is on.”

“I can’t open a portal.” Strange bows his head, unusually exhausted for a man whose former profession entailed, what, eighty to hundred-hour work weeks. Ten-hour surgeries. “I don’t understand.”

He thinks he gets it. If he’d been trapped in that cave with nothing on his hands, shadows on the walls, instead of something tangible, he would’ve gone insane. If he could no longer build. If he gave up Iron Man, and it wasn’t his choice. Instinctively, he places a hand on Strange’s shoulder. An intake of breath, the smallest gasp. Surprise at Tony’s touch, though Tony has touched him before. On the ship, on Titan. They’ve shaken hands. They’ve - Tony lets go.

“Uh. How did you get here?” Curiosity and the cat, not the best combination. Curiosity and satisfaction, that’s Tony in one. In two.

Strange regards him for a second. “It keeps throwing me through time. To the same time. Different places, different times. I haven’t worked it out yet. If –” Always a promising start. If, a possibility. The beginnings of an invention, an idea. He leans in towards Tony, although they already are standing close to each other. No one else is present, but he lowers his voice. “If an injury disappears at a faster rate than it normally would, I’ll know it resets.”

Not that promising, after all. “Throwing yourself off a cliff to see if the fall kills, oh, injures you? Makes perfect sense. That makes _zero_ sense.” It sounds like Tony Stark level of brilliant stupidity. Suddenly, Strange’s masterplan appears that much more nebulous. How much hindsight was fourteen million futures? 1 to 14,000,604.

“Physician, not a physicist,” Strange counters. Is mind-reading one of his abilities?

Read this. It isn’t Tony’s problem, Strange unstuck in time, as long as the rest of the world doesn’t follow. If the good doctor was clever enough to save/sacrifice the universe in one move, he can find his way out of a maze on his own. Lending a hand falls under collegial courtesy, but Strange being courteous or a colleague is debatable. Not big on sharing information. There’s that little resentful voice in Tony’s head, pointing out the mess Strange left him. It calls out, _not really my friend_ , with some heat. That’s no reason to burn bridges, right after they’ve been built.

Damn, he needs a break. A new place, new surroundings, which would have him bored within hours, or days, or weeks, or months. However long you’re supposed to spend globetrotting. Should take a vacation, but Rhodey has a career. Peter has school. Bruce has – actually, he has no idea what Bruce is doing. Those are the guys he sees eye to eye with. Thor has a kingdom to resurrect from the ruins, which triumphs over anyone else’s attempts at post-battle self-pity.

Tony needs people. He’s a people person. And he needs something to do. Here’s Strange, come knocking on Tony’s door. Tumbling into his kitchen, a wizard who’s found himself some trouble. Nursing a broken heart is one thing, but Tony isn’t heartless. Fixing stuff is what he does. He puts things back together again, at least when he isn’t busy breaking them. Taking items apart to examine what’s underneath. In a strange way, it’s not that different from being a doctor.

Strange is silent, thoughtful. Rarely a good sign. Last time he kept to himself, the world practically ended. “Dominoes,” he utters. One word, which has weight to it. A cryptic statement that stands for something else. An enigma. Code.

Intentions and consequences. “Not the best pizza. Or falling down like bricks?”

“Connecting the dots,” Strange answers distractedly. Searching for a pattern, or is he forming an exit plan? The issue with Strange isn’t that he doesn’t play well with others. No surgeon works alone. As a sorcerer, he more than participated in the fighting. It’s that he forsakes the game for a solo side adventure. Whoever said what annoys you in others you can find in yourself was full of it. Strange, stepping into the shadows, is nothing like Tony.

Win, lose. Black, white. One setup for victory, fourteen million ways to fail. Nerves of steel. Nerves of a surgeon. “Figured you’d play chess. For the intellectual stimulation.”

But Strange appeals to him, serious as ever, startlingly sincere, “Keep track of the time, if I come back –”

It’s nothing like seeing someone be erased out of existence. Nothing so horrible. One second Strange is there, then there’s a flicker. Sorcerer gone. Portal disappeared, as suddenly as it appeared. As far as vanishing acts go, it’s very convincing. More than that, it’s real.

Shock and betrayal hit him harder than a repulsor blast. He remembers Quill, his companions, ashes in the air. Hears Strange use his last breath on an explanation that wasn’t (was it a plea?), having done the exact thing he vowed not to. Peter fighting it, begging to stay, but there was not a thing Tony could do. Feels him turn into dust in his arms. Himself left with blood on his hands, Wanda Maximoff’s vision - not _Vision_ \- palpable reality.

He shakes it off, _off_. The past is past. His ghosts have returned, no longer ghosts. It’s less interesting than the future, but Tony anchors himself firmly to the present. “Okay, Strange,” he tells the silent room. “What now?”

With all his resources, he doesn’t even know where to start. How do you solve a problem like Stephen Strange, time-looping ex-surgeon? Not by singing your heart out in the Alps. Or the Himalayas. How do you solve any problem, from adding one and one to the most complicated equation in the world? One step at a time, by means of science or magic.

Tony Stark has a wizard to save. Anything else can wait another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains: intended harm to self (for practical purposes)


	2. Chapter 2

STEPHEN

 _Time is relative_ , he thinks later, at some point. Echoing the words of his mentor, ageless and age-old. In the present, in New York, it’s six in the morning. In Nepal, afternoon. He’s awake. He’s to see Wong. He’ll form a portal soon.

“Fifteen minutes,” he murmurs. The Cloak doesn’t answer, but he senses it close by, listening, playing hide-and-seek. A sidekick and accessory, with the personality of an obstinate pet. Or a very loyal one. There’s a tune in his head: Nina Simone vocals, heavy brass and an airy piano, hovering like a butterfly. From _I Put a Spell on You_ , the album, Philips Records, 1965. He isn’t necessarily feeling _good_ in general, but today, the past doesn’t weigh so heavily on him. The dust has settled. Existence normalised, if anything about his existence can be called normal.

Magic is such an integral part of his life that he can no longer imagine a world without it. It gives his life meaning. His magic isn’t tied to his hands, and yet in some sense, it is an extension of them. He uses magic to affect the world in meaningful ways. Not to heal, but to defend. To preserve. Whether his hands bother him or not, he can physically alter reality.

He isn’t thinking about a portal. He doesn’t conjure one. Before he knows it, he’s pulled into a circle, leaving the Sanctum far behind. He blinks, and the afterimage of New York fades. The portal isn’t there anymore, a dream that ended abruptly. He’s standing in a forest, surrounded by pines. In the distance, over the tall treetops, he sees mountains. It’s very quiet. He redirects his thoughts to Kamar-Taj, the picture perfect in his mind. A window to the past, or the future.

It’s not relearning one’s place in the universe. Lethargy, the day after a battle, overworking himself. He does everything he’s supposed to. Follows the music, interprets the piece as he plays it, improvising when he can.

He looks at his wrist. It’s a plain watch. Worn already, a mark of a complicated life and a simple lifestyle. Not like the luxury brands he preferred. It doesn’t come with a calendar, but it keeps the time. It’s six past six. His gaze is fixed on the watch, as it ticks on. Predictable, a pulse.

He tries a few other spells to no result. He looks at his watch. Three minutes. He’s supposed to be in Kamar-Taj in six minutes. Based on the scenery, this could be the Himalayas. Not where Wong expects him, though. He goes through his mind for anything useful, a Wikipedia article, Lonely Planet. Even with his memory, there’s a catch. You can’t remember information you never accessed in the first place.

Is there wildlife, he has time to wonder, and what kind of wildlife? But then, he’s pulled somewhere else.

...

A white-tailed deer is staring at him with big eyes. An odd, vulnerable creature that makes him want to reach out. They carry diseases, he reminds himself. He has a soft spot for animals. Strays. Dogs. Soft, _soft_.

He moves, or the doe moves before him, running away as the portal draws him in.

...

He stands in a meadow. Could be anywhere. It’s a view you can’t get in the city, this vast canvas. A place to stop, to meditate on nature.

He always worked. Researched. Maintained professional connections. His new role holds greater responsibilities. Instead of a tumour that poses a risk to the life of one person, a technique that can save thousands, he faces threats that could annihilate entire universes. Erasing the history of Earth without leaving a microbe. Neurosurgery, low stakes. It isn’t, of course, not for the operating surgeon or the patient, but the knowledge he’s acquired in the past few years does put the knowledge he acquired in the decades before in a different light. To see in part, she said, and threw his spirit out of his body.

At least the Ancient One experienced that moment of stillness, of peace. Watching the snow, rain in disguise. Elementary science. For a moment, he feels a sort of childish exhilaration at the freedom. A lightness of being. In this moment, he simply is.

Until he looks at his watch. It hasn’t stopped. It isn’t broken. He’s moved from one place to another, and another, but his watch is back to minutes past six. Any trace of peace is swept away, replaced by the feeling of being trapped. And it hits him - of being alone.

…

A ravine. Turns into a dry lake, with violent cracks in the earth. Barren tundra landscape, a chill that gets to his fingers. The rocky edge of a glacier, then a rock in the ocean, high enough not to feel the waves. Uneven, so he must work to keep his footing.

He tries a spell. A portal. Nothing happens. He can do this. He escaped Everest.

He stays for a minute. An hour. When he has the time, and when the light permits, he looks at his watch. Time always reverts.

His leaps around the globe speed up, dizzying and inhuman, similar to the trip the Ancient One sent him on. Up and up and up. An astronaut. A carousel that keeps spinning. From half-light to a blur to pounding darkness, as though he were having a heart attack.

He’s died. Been stabbed. Been operated on. Worked in and worked his way out of high-stress situations. It doesn’t detract from the helplessness. A pain in his chest, goes through him. He’s falling down, into the Avengers Compound.

\--

“Sorry,” he mumbles, almost elbowing someone. Didn’t actually intend to land there, wherever there is. Starring in _Where’s Waldo_ is tiresome, and what he really needs to find is himself. Or preferably, a way out.

Here looks like a crowded marketplace. Busy enough not to pay him any mind, not so packed he can’t step to the side. Flowers and vegetables in every colour of the rainbow. People. Noise. Voices around him, indistinguishable, until he catches the rhythm. A tonal language, recognisable. He’s a thousand miles from Hong Kong. Further from Kathmandu. It’s a nineteen-hour flight to New York.

With a touch of irony, he realises he’s left his passport in the place he needs to reach; sorcerers have other means of transportation, after all. The last time he was on a plane was on his way to Nepal. Well, he was on a spaceship. Not by choice. His current involuntary journey may take him somewhere else in a second, before he has time to think _airport_. If this is as far as the line goes? What to do, wait for the Cloak of Levitation to rescue him? Hitch-hike. Borrow someone’s cell. An explanation is more effort than it’s worth. His fingers aren’t nimble and the last thing he wants is trouble.

Wong will know what to do. Maybe it’s overexposure to the Stone. He tries to focus his thoughts on Kamar-Taj. _Come on, come on, get me out of here._ Touches upon familiar paths. Rain. Writing an email. New York. Kathmandu, New York. Hong Kong, that’s -

How people disappear. He doesn’t have a single baht, a strange echo of reaching Nepal, down to his last. What a hopeless fool he was. Going there. Staying behind a door that was shut, because he had nothing and nowhere, but also because he’d caught a glimpse of wonders (of horrors) and sensed a great _something_. He was starved for anything. New. Exciting. An opportunity. Escape.

...

He’s back on the floor. It isn’t Kamar-Taj, Hong Kong or the New York Sanctum. By the fridge, Tony Stark spins around, smooth as ever. “Juice?”

“What’s the time,” Stephen demands without getting up. Before the day is done, he’ll end up with a collection of bruises to appear. It’s six in the morning.

“Or you can lie on the floor and think of – seven. Ish.” Hardly the accuracy you’d expect from a mechanic, an engineer, a hacker. The code works, or it doesn’t. What it definitely doesn’t do is work with approximations and rough estimates, any more than he could cure a patient by poking at whatever in the brain. A 21st-century Renaissance man, Stark is hardly _any_ mechanic. Computer genius. Genius, no compound noun. “Still Sunday,” Stark says lightly. “Heads-up: clear on the rescue, working on the plan.”

Stephen looks at his watch, confirming the time. His time. New York, EDT. The first repeat, and the first time time has moved outside a loop. For him, at least. By accident, he’s found himself an anchor. Temporarily, perhaps.

How long was he gone? The problem proves too difficult for someone who freehanded the removal of a bullet. Is he a different man from that? One who sees much further. There could be a Stephen Strange walking around at this moment, in some other place. In this timeline? He thinks not. He doesn’t carry the Stone in his pocket, but he’s witnessed enough of the complexities of time. This isn’t the closed loop in the Dark Dimension. It isn’t picking between possible outcomes. Not time travel where he meets or avoids his past or future self, but doors that are opened and closed. Time malfunctions, but it seems only for him. Nothing about Stark suggests he’s reliving a moment. Or taking any detours.

Steady as a foal on his legs, Stephen leans against the kitchen island with his elbows. Takes the glass with both hands. Sips. Sugary orange.

“Big place.” He keeps his voice neutral, glancing at the tables and chairs. His magic may be momentarily locked, but he senses some things. There’s little to suggest a group of people with extraordinary abilities lived here. The Compound is modern and technological. Too cold. Unexpectedly corporate. More Stark Industries than Tony Stark? He recalls his own apartment, being emptied of all things, valuable and worthless. Left a brooding man who’d let everything slip through his fingers. “Not many people.”

It could be the hour. It could.

“No,” Stark answers, a sombre feeling clinging to him. A man who’s done his duty. Saved much. Lost some, ostensibly happy ending be damned. Stephen could offer his sympathy, but there’s a fine line between sympathy and pity. And he always was better at touching people with his hands than his words.

It’s – strange. He worked with people. He enjoyed his work, being good at it. Better than good, among the best, _the_ best, in a field that was competitive to the extreme. It was art and it was science and it was his life. Brilliant mind or not, it took years of work to get where he was. He spent years working in a hospital. Most waking hours, sometimes nearly every hour of the week. He would’ve spent his years there. Eventually, success overshadowed the healer. He became a person with a reputation for perfection and performing miracles, but he was actually terrified of making a mistake. Of not living up to his own standards. Of failing his patients.

He’s been closed off. No man is an island, but he stepped onto the shores of magic and never really returned. Spending his time at the Sanctum. In Kamar-Taj. Some of it not on Earth. He has no desire or energy to socialise, even with Captain Rogers or Doctor Banner, people his curious, scientific mind might have looked forward to meeting in the past. Thor would be an interesting acquaintance, but he’s understandably busy.

Peter Parker is a good kid. A far better person than Stephen was at his age. What does a neurosurgeon turned sorcerer have in common with a teenager with enhanced senses? Stark is already his mentor. Stephen is hesitant to intrude on their professional and personal relationship, that balance. He knew he couldn’t and wouldn’t prioritise any one life over the Time Stone. He told Stark. Not his own life. Not the life of someone essentially a child, although he played in an adult world with adult rules. Soldiers slightly older – aged eighteen, nineteen – die in war. Sometimes, people die young. The battle’s different. There never was one.

And then there’s Stark. Tony, who stands a few feet away, a cup of coffee in his hand. The nervous, anxious feeling works its way to the bone. Guilt. Leaving one man with such a weight on his shoulders. Atlas, that Titan. _Tony_ , he thinks, _there were so many other ways_. A stack of horrible options. It seemed better, fading away. _I don’t know how you’ll manage, but I believe you will._ His faith wasn’t misplaced.

Stark gives him a careful, searching look. Uncharacteristically subdued, he takes his place opposite Stephen. Two players facing the board.

It could be the memory of Titan, the planet, that bothers Stephen. Most people don’t have to remember their deaths, and so, it isn’t something the human mind is particularly adept at. A certain amount of distress is natural. His most recent demise scarcely makes it onto his list of worst deaths - his new life in a nutshell. Unlike Dormammu, who became more and more enraged and sadistic as time went by – or it didn’t - Thanos wanted to erase half the universe, the method a secondary concern. It wasn’t pleasant. An understatement. It’s also an experience he shares with a multitude of people, who have no idea what cosmic horrors exist. Nor should they.

Dying is one of the most unpleasant things to happen, but it’s also inevitable. He should be used to dying. He isn’t. He’s good at compartmentalising, boxes full of uncomfortable experiences. Those that you keep in the attic. Like an engineer, dismantling some creation, shelving the parts. Burying them.

“I have no room to talk,” Stephen admits quietly, with unexpected sadness. He’s been closed off since his return, but really, he’s been closed off since the accident. His business at Kamar-Taj is just that, business.

Stark shrugs with his entire body. His features are ones you could easily be drawn to. Easily recognisable, from print and screen, and now, real life and memory. Stephen remembers Stark’s reluctance at the idea of calling Steve Rogers. His hurt, bleeding all over. Not anything a doctor could cure, not a neurosurgeon. He’s difficult to read, too. Stephen has seen him in millions of timelines, in hundreds of stories, on a number of occasions. That impulsive flame. For all he knows, there’s another fourteen million timelines in which Tony Stark did something equally surprising. Grandiose. Heroic.

Loops he knows more from experience than books, practice before theory. When he performed, down to the same dialogue – an endless litany of _I’ve come to bargain_ – two thousand times, it was one loop. That he controlled. That let him practice his magic. The events he viewed through the Stone allowed him to make a choice. A choice he shouldn’t have had to make. No man should doom half of humanity, no more than Thanos, but he had to force his hand. Otherwise, Peter Parker, the Guardians of the Galaxy, assorted Avengers – half of existence would’ve disappeared forever. Himself included.

He’s no longer in control. That was her lesson. It isn’t about him, they don’t choose their time, but play their parts in the greater events. Do what they can. With Dormammu, and on Titan, he had a purpose, even if that purpose was to die. Sometimes, it requires handing over the responsibility. But hasn’t he trusted Stark already? Hasn’t he let go?

“Hints from the future?” Stark cuts in, seemingly back to his wry, old self.

“Not really the future,” Stephen replies softly. “It’s the same hour.”

“If that’s how you feel, you should re-reconsider your career.” At Stephen’s blank expression, Stark continues, “No? All right, Bill Murray. Who’d you piss off?”

Good question. His deaths at the hands of Dormammu went by fast enough - except when they didn’t. Nothing quite like prolonged suffering before the inevitable end. He needs something to break free, but a knife is a blunter weapon than a scalpel. With his precision? Better avoid death, in case it’s permanent. He probably should’ve picked a fight on his last stop. He looks Stark straight in the eye. “More than one entity, I presume. How so?”

Never one to back off, Stark holds eye contact longer than strictly necessary. “Girlfriend. Not girlfriend. Amends.”

Stephen shakes his head, amends. For a man who presents himself as a careless playboy, speaking as if he’s never once doubted his own decisions, Stark is filled to the brim with self-blame. Insecurities and fears, inside one another, covered up with bravado. Enough blame extinguishes itself. At which point, there’s one other person to fault. Does Stark see anything of himself in Stephen? It may be a one-way mirror. Stark has no reason to like magic. Fewer reasons still to like Stephen.

He stands up, means to walk away. There’s a flicker of an image, the Iron Man armour, sleek nanotech. An odd moment, when he considers grabbing Stark by the arm. Not a doctor’s instinct. They could both end up stranded on a cliff somewhere, which isn’t particularly productive. Or Stark would escape in his suit, or they both would. To be pulled back by some force? He’s played this game before, made millions of wrong moves. It reminds him too much of Titan.

“Stark, I -” Wings of a butterfly, fluttering in the place of his heart. _Contact Wong_ , he says or thinks. A rush to the head. Loud and uncontrollable, his heartbeat mimics thunder. Tony Stark saved the world. The universe. Anything Stephen could ask of him, anything Stephen could offer - less than ever - is laughably insignificant. Tentative and questioning, a world away from his overconfident self, he whispers, “I’m - sorry?”

And he’s off.

It’s six o’clock. It’s always six o’clock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains: intended harm to self (for practical purposes)


	3. Chapter 3

WONG

He expects Strange at four. Although Kamar-Taj occupies its own sphere, separate from the rest of the world, less so from the Sanctums, in a place that’s forty-five or fifteen minutes apart from anywhere else, Strange commutes often enough. He’s not unfamiliar with the time difference. But the clock strikes. No one appears. Time ticks on, towards a quarter past, then closer to the half-hour. No Strange.

Wong, who has better things to do than run after every errant sorcerer, decides to wait an hour. It’s not the first time Strange has lost himself in some obscure volume, though that’s no excuse for not keeping the time. There’s the nagging doubt that something could be amiss. Strange has a knack for getting into situations he only sometimes gets out of. If he is in trouble? Wong has grown used to him. He’s a constant.

When he reaches New York, it’s a peaceful Sunday morning. The windows of the Sanctum let a little sunlight into the building, silent and abandoned. The wards are up, showing no signs of a fight or a struggle. No clues where Strange would’ve gone. A sense of foreboding fills him nonetheless, as if something were slightly out of the ordinary. Enough to notice. Feel the vibrations in the air.

The Sanctum isn’t completely empty. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Cloak of Levitation. Like the Ancient One, it recognised something in Strange. At the moment, the relic hovers in the air, confused and indecisive, before it sets its course downstairs. Wong follows – and runs into Tony Stark, of all people.

“Peace,” Stark greets him, forming the sign with his fingers. A magic stronghold low on technology, the Sanctum is far from his natural habitat. Nevertheless, he moves with the confidence and ease of a man who belongs anywhere he chooses. “But you should check your security. Anyone could waltz in.” Stark seems taken aback, as though the Sanctum should know better than to let him inside. “Strange men. At least the Compound handles the non-mystical threats. Kind of an obvious weakness?”

An obvious weakness, thinks Wong, and not in the Sanctum. It’s not the first hint. Strange is very good at hiding some things about himself, things you would never know, and much worse at hiding others. He has the objectivity of a surgeon, but he can’t escape the subjectivity of man, despite hiding some emotions deep inside himself. Learning humility is one thing. Falling from a life of wealth and status doesn’t entail rejecting everything. It could, but it would wear you out.

Wong lets go of that train of thought for the moment. He listens to Stark describe what they’re dealing with, Strange falling in and out of time. Since this year, very many people have a timeline that is fractured. Wong isn’t one of them – and he is. One whose line came to a halt. Ended. Continued. The connection Strange has to time, the Time Stone, runs far deeper. Still, there must be a way to break the loop. Rescue him from its clutches.

“Great,” says Stark in a chipper voice. “Leave you to it. Namaste.” On the surface, there’s that familiar, disrespectful attitude. Making sport of everything, same old song. But Wong is good at reading people, even men who wear masks for a profession. It’s less about not caring, an unwillingness to help, take responsibility, and more that Stark recognises he’s out of his depth here, mixed with some lingering discomfort with magic. Some fascination, as well. And the fact that Stark rarely stops making jests. When it isn’t his life on the line?

Wong holds up one hand. “There’s a complication.”

True to character, Stark rolls his eyes. “Never heard that one before. No, go on.”

He cuts to it. “I can’t help Strange.”

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me.” Stark’s annoyance is genuine, frustration bleeding into his words. Residue of a man who’s used to things going his way. Evidence of something else. “Your two forms of magic repel each other, or what? No, of course not, Wizard Two can’t rescue Wizard One. That’s easy, and easy is boring.” He shoots Wong a dark look. “Who am I supposed to call, Wanda Maximoff? Because last I checked - not my greatest fan.”

Stark carries on his tirade, talking as fast with his hands as his mouth. “Probably not up for dealing with time, not after Wakanda. If she knows how to. B.A.R.F. - revolutionary. Actual time? This conversation never happened. Strange didn’t reach out. No Titan. No battle in New York.” Rattled, Stark falls silent. Change too much of the past, and the present becomes uncertain. Or too certain. If Strange disappears before Nepal, before Kamar-Taj, Wong doesn’t make it. Perhaps none of them do. If there’s no Iron Man? Many an if.

“Forget Power, Space, Mind, Reality.” Stark meets Wong’s eyes. “ _That_ is freaky.”

“Time can be unpredictable.” Wong hesitates, pondering the past, the information he has gathered. “When your timeline has been fractured. Glued back together.”

“Help me out. How does this work?” Determined to fix any situation, Stark flashes a confident grin. Confidence can be a kind of armour. “Breaking a curse. Do wizards do it the old-fashioned way?” At Wong’s blank look, Stark clarifies, “Witch tricks poor, unsuspecting surgeon in exile. Who should know better than to consume just anything. Strange didn’t fail med school, but med school clearly failed him. Falls to the floor. Doesn’t get up.” He pauses. “Instead of lying in a glass coffin, frozen in time, he relives the same hour. Frozen in time.”

If the jokes Strange told were occasionally exhausting – and later something Wong missed – building walls to hide himself behind a glib exterior, Stark’s rambles are far worse. His ridiculousness held down temporarily, at best. How he ever managed to find himself a fiancée is a mystery. Wong thinks of the first time he met Stark. Snappy jokes. Hard shell. Tin can. There was a softer man inside. A softer heart.

Wong frowns. “Interfering, especially through magical means, could have unforeseen consequences.”

“No magic. Fractured timeline, though?” Stark studies him. “You weren’t dusted.”

Serves him right for trying to hide information from a genius. Like Strange, Stark is too curious for his own good. Wong sees two ways forwards. The path of silent evasion, steady on, and that of blunt honesty, thorny as it is. He picks the latter. “I died,” he admits. “Hong Kong, 2016.”

For once, Stark has no witty one-liner prepared. His demeanour transforms, becomes more muted. To count all the times he could’ve died, Stark needs more than one hand. But that’s a different conversation, one of hypotheticals. It feels like a personal thing to disclose, your own death. A lot of people have died and returned, including Strange, in a zigzag of time and life lines, blotted with the ink of death. Paint it over. Rewrite time and save lives. That doesn’t erase Wong’s own experience, lighten it.

They didn’t discuss it afterwards. They haven’t discussed Strange’s return, apart from the essentials. Wong doesn’t ask unnecessary questions. He keeps quiet, except when he chooses not to. “The Dark Dimension was closing in on Earth, threatening all existence.”

“Just another Tuesday.” Stark sighs like a man who’s seen it all. One who thinks he has.

“There was a battle. Strange used the Stone to – revive me.” He reversed the threat. Removed it. He brokered a deal. More than that, Wong doesn’t know. He laughed at the warnings coming after the spells. With hindsight, it’s less funny. Strange made the bargain, then and now, but what did it take? If he slept badly afterwards? He barely slept in the first place. And who was there to watch him.

It’s always worse not to know. To remain in the dark. There’s a delay, a missing second, but that moment, the gap, widens with time. Enough to swallow you whole. He can’t stay silent. He voices his thoughts, what he believes to be true. “Strange came close to death before Titan.”

“The crash? Looked ugly.” Stark is far from indifferent to past suffering. He has his own journey, like every other hero. Like many who reach Kamar-Taj. However, he speaks with the detachment of someone who’s seen many forms of violence. An accident, no matter how serious, ranks as a mundane occurrence. He resembles, momentarily, a doctor discussing a case. The medical details, not the patient. The cause, not the effect.

Wong shakes his head. “He entered the Dark Dimension to use time, and himself, against Dormammu, a being more ancient than time.”

Stark isn’t looking at him, staring into space. “How long,” he finally speaks. “How long was he there?”

Another fracture. “There’s no way to tell. Strange was gone from Earth for a second. When he returned, he’d beaten Dormammu, who left. The Dark Dimension is a place beyond time, but he must have extended the moment. Any length of time. If it’s possible to keep track of it.” Unless he used a loop. Tracked time by the loop.

“He played against death before? And won. I figured _protecting your reality_ was hyperbole. Biggest egos on the block. I didn’t successfully privatise world peace either. Or did, but that didn’t – Time has it out for him? You? Everyone?” Stark’s eyes are keen. It’s easy to be distracted by the showmanship, labels like _genius_ , advertising Americans will slap on anyone and anything, everything always the biggest and the best, and forget about his actual intelligence. The raw material, but also his concrete accomplishments, which amount to so much more than good business deals - advancements in numerous fields.

“Time is unpredictable,” Wong repeats. In particular, after the destruction of the Eye. “But there are certainties. No one can survive indefinitely outside it.”

“Impossible. Hate to break it to you, Yoda, but this -” Stark gestures at their surroundings. “Force, whatever. That guy over there.” He glances towards the corner, where the Cloak of Levitation follows the conversation in silent understanding. “Magic shouldn’t exist. Bet our disappeared doctor agreed. Before he became a certified wizard, anyway.”

The point. Strange could be a surprise. He already has been. “A wild card. Selfless hero. Self-sacrificing idiot?”

“It takes one to know one,” answers Wong, looking at the man who flew a missile into outer space. Saving a city, where, among millions of people, lived and worked a Doctor Stephen Strange, a neurosurgeon without any knowledge of the Mystic Arts. Four years later, Strange drives off a road, finds his way to Kamar-Taj, and turns out to have reckless, foolish smarts that rival Stark’s. Even surpass them. Saving the world from succumbing into dark nothingness. Fate? Or a very lucky turn of events.

Stark appears uncomfortable. “Yeah. Cap did it first. Ended up in the ice and all. Me? Not a bruise.”

Doubtful. Heroics, blatant and furtive, come at a cost. “The Mystical Arts require dedication. And sacrifice.”

Tony Stark has a higher IQ than almost anyone on the planet, but the potential for highly intelligent thoughts doesn’t always equal highly intelligent actions. Strange is the epitome of that maxim. A part of Wong was loath to see anything in Strange, arrogant enough to begin with. What’s genuinely remarkable about him, the gifted man who was a talented surgeon, who struggled with magic until he excelled at it, isn’t obvious from the outside. You could read his resumé, thinking you knew everything about him. See the hands, a career in ruins, and dismiss him completely. Perhaps what’s remarkable about Stark isn’t immediately obvious either. One had to look deeper than the billions. The brilliance.

“Got to give it your all, I get it.” Stark’s smile is rueful. There are no part-time sorcerers, any more that there are part-time superheroes. Stark was already in the spotlight, his every action scrutinised. Iron Man would’ve made the news regardless. The media watched the ups and downs of his relationship, but the sober and carefully worded statement they released was almost buried under all the other recent stories.

Stark shrugs. “You don’t look like you half-ass stuff.”

Wong grunts an indistinct reply.

“But Strange goes above and beyond,” Stark adds in a sly voice. It’s a rhetorical question, one obsessive recognising his fellow. “Had a feeling. Fourteen million futures? Big clue.”

Wong considers his words. He would discuss Strange’s worrying tendencies with the Ancient One. Mordo. Stark? They exchanged some words in the aftermath, none since. Wong is close to veering into a private area, but some things must be shared. Books have no use gathering dust. They should be read, treated with care.

“Strange came to Kamar-Taj, not to learn magic, but to look for a cure for his hands.” He watches Stark, the neutral façade, for a reaction. Wong doubts this is news. A billionaire hacker has his sources. “He began studying magic, progressing fast, too fast, to texts far beyond his expertise.” In a rare instance, Wong lets his distaste show. “By separating his spirit from his body. By trespassing in the library at night.”

“Multitasking and breaking into the Restricted Section,” Stark observes, reluctantly impressed. He would be. “Guess he doesn’t play by the rules.” Two of a kind. 

Wong holds out his left palm. “Lack of proper rest. Too much work. Stubbornness.” The right palm. “Balance.” Unrooting the mind for a prolonged time will weaken the body.

“He has acquired more information about the world than most. More than you, Stark. More than me. About many things. But two years ago, Strange was a surgeon.” Wong noticed the change after Hong Kong, of course. But _he_ was changed, too. Every sorcerer was. If Strange seemed more serious, confident in his magic, those were positives. If something weighed on his shoulders, he was the Master of the New York Sanctum. A responsibility. There was much to rebuild. Then. Now. Two years later.

There’s a danger in learning from mistakes that have never happened. A prophet’s truth is a false, shifting image, where possible outcomes have possible outcomes. No one is omniscient, not even those who have viewed the future.

Stark raises his eyebrows. “Are you telling me he’s inexperienced?”

When he thinks about it, yes. In the Mystic Arts, which take decades to learn and a lifetime to practice. In personal matters. They chose magic over everything else, Strange, Wong, everyone at Kamar-Taj. Emphasising minds over hearts can lead to bitter and lonely lives.

When he thinks about it, no. If anything, Strange has too much experience. More than one man should be burdened with.

( _Fourteen million six hundred and five_ , Stark told them before they got to work, in numb shock, clinging to the lifeline, the _one._ )

“I’m saying that sometimes he has no idea what he’s doing. Sometimes he does it anyway. He’ll burn himself out.” Or worse.

The Ancient One saw herself in Strange. Even now, Wong misses her grounding guidance. The light arrogance, brought on by her years and abilities. After a string of arrogant men – Kaecilius and Mordo, both destructive; Strange, for the most part merely self-destructive – it’s refreshing to remember her wisdom.

For his part, Wong is content to be a librarian. Mordo accepted his place in the universe, to a point. Strange never gives up. Neither does Tony Stark. The man who saved New York. Who fought at Wong’s side. Who went into space after Strange. This is the person Stephen trusted the future with. Though he’s made appalling decisions, continues to do so, especially when it comes to himself, this isn’t one of them. Wong can disapprove of many things. He doesn’t entirely disapprove of this.

He doesn’t have to like everything about Stark. He doesn’t have to like anything about Stark, but he finds, to his surprise, that he doesn’t dislike him. Wong considers how to formulate his suggestion, request - _he needs someone to talk to, someone with common ground but some distance_ \- when his thoughts are interrupted by restless, red movement.

Puzzled amusement forms on Stark’s features. “Package deal? Sorcerer’s apprentice, free magic cape. I’d consider.”

“The Cloak of Levitation.” Wong gives him a meaningful look. “It chose Strange.”

“Chose strangely? Missed opportunity for a pun. _Whosoever, be he worthy, shall haveth_ -” Stark snorts at some memory. “Bad grammar or old language, never can tell. But I’ll leave the door open for a joke. Could trip someone up. That guy, Drax?”

“Stark,” he says sharply. “Blunt force, maybe. Not a kiss. Something unexpected.” With a wave of the hand, he forms a portal to Kathmandu. “It should settle the timeline,” he explains, glancing at Stark. “Show where he belongs.”

“Straight from the sorcerer’s mouth: pull no punches? That’s what he said, no kidding.” A sequence of emotions flickers on Stark’s face, as Wong turns towards him. Ambivalence. Ambiguity. Uncertainty. “Violence solves everything. So, what should I do with the new and improved wizard? After I’ve kicked his ass.”

“Send him to Kamar-Taj. Or better yet, let him sleep it off.” Is he asking the lesser fool to look after the greater fool? Possibly the other way around. Stark likely no better than Strange, functioning on hot beverages turned cold. And sheer determination. Casting a stern gaze at Stark, he says, “Fix. It.”

Stark salutes him. “Aye, aye, Captain Wong.”

Wong steps into the evening, when he hears Stark call out, “How is a kiss _not_ unexpected?” But he closes the portal without looking back, a hint of smile on his face.

Let Stark think about that.


	4. Chapter 4

TONY

Tony flexes his fingers. When he wants to, the suit will form around him in an instant. No need for it yet, Iron Man without his suit. Sanctum without sorcerers. The New York Sanctum, because apparently there are other buildings like it, a chain around the world. First time he’s been here in a while. Not since Strange returned. Has he stayed here the entire time? On Bleecker Street, but removed from it. Tony in the same state.

He expected a magic border. Some security system, password – speak _friend_ and enter – but the building opened its doors and pulled him inside, eager to reveal at least some of its secrets. Either the Sanctum has decided his presence is non-threatening, which Tony will feel insulted about later, in a minute, when he has the time. His suit is a threat. His ingenuity. Or it senses that he and Strange are allies: _friend, and enter_. Either way, the building isn’t as impossible to breach as its occupant.

 ~~Princess~~ Sorcerer in another castle. Time. Place. Tony is taller and more handsome than Mario, the plucky plumber in red, and has infinitely better facial hair, but he can’t do anything else than wait. Can’t move the game forward. Pick a path.

“Knight in shining –” Armour’s off. The familiar piece of fabric floats around Tony, radiating worry. It seemed disappointed to see (how?) him, relieved at the same time. “You really are loyal,” Tony mutters, charmed despite himself. “Should introduce you to Dum-E.”

No, Tony hasn’t finally cracked - stress, insomnia, blood pressure, his heart - talking to articles of clothing that won’t reply. He talks to his own creations. He talks to himself. A sure sign of intelligence and mental health. He’d turn to his girl F.R.I.D.A.Y., but there’s an air to the Sanctum. Something old and forgotten, which makes him want to hold off the tech. Unheard of. Despite the name, despite the chain, the mountain retreat, the strange building is hardly a temple. But a meditative silence surrounds him.

“Your – ” Master? Owner? Friend? He hums, settles for the sure bet. “Wizard. He’s kind of a jerk.”

If the cloak was a cat, it would hiss. Since the cloak is a cloak, a magic one, some distant relation to a flying carpet, it might hit him again. But Tony’s a jerk, too. He probably deserves it.

“Rude. Arrogant. Demanding. Copied the beard, but won’t admit it.”

And still. Strange is nothing like Tony, who confessed his secret identity five minutes in, on some cocky impulse. They are both sad, middle-aged men, whose shiny lives were meaningless when it came to it. Who put their egos above everything else, until they _really_ didn’t. Everyone’s saved the world. Steve made history. Tony made the news, from Los Angeles to Tokyo. Twice. At least. Strange did something: X, unknown. Other than the open secret. Something his bestest buddy, partner in - time? - wizarding colleague couldn’t even pinpoint. Everyone loves a good mystery. Not Tony, who wants answers.

The cloak disintegrated together with Strange. Materialised again with him. And Strange hid away, here or Nepal or wherever wizards went. _You were there_ , Tony thinks, studying Little Red. In Hong Kong. Places beyond Hong Kong. Met the Bad Wolf. But cloaks don’t talk. Maybe Morse code? It has mastered non-verbal communication. A bit aggressive with Tony, but helped fight Thanos. Good cloak.

Lonely cloak. _What if he doesn’t return_ , it seems to signal.

He will, Tony decides. Strange doesn’t get to pull that stunt again. Disappear from Tony’s life as quickly as he appeared in it, appealing to Tony at the beginning and the end.

“Trust me on this one,” he tells the Cloak, which has suddenly acquired a capital letter. He has a plan. His plan has a heading. It has bullet points.

Might look bad.

\--

Time moves slowly - though not as slowly as for Strange, one step forward and one step back, which got him exactly nowhere - in this place that seems untouched by time. Is there anything around him, furniture, an object, that isn’t at least a hundred years old, Tony wonders. Not that he’s gone through Strange’s bedroom, closet, drawers. Yet.

For once in his life, Tony decides to follow the age-old wisdom of _look, don’t touch_ , even though his hands itch to examine his surroundings, other readings useless. Someone came up with that after having opened the wrong wizard’s door. Ended up in Timbuktu. He’ll take the advice.

One cloak. One distinguished guest. Welcoming party in place, missing their host. Who, late, on time, is thrown to the floor. The latest punching bag for the universe.

“Come here often?” Tony pulls the sorcerer back on his feet, an echo of an echo.

“Amusing,” Strange says hoarsely, taking in his home. Tony. He seems a bit shaken, but grateful to see Tony. Any old face. “I’d ask, but I know your answer. A more pertinent question: been anywhere interesting lately?”

“And?” Tony offers a smile, between wry and sympathetic. A beat.

“Everywhere. Staring at a polar bear. It was an experience.” Strange looks at his feet. Back up. “Before that, Antarctica.”

“Better or worse?” And that vow is stale as old cake by now. There hadn’t been a cake. No leftover slice to auction off as a questionable reminder of Tony’s latest fiasco. Whimper, not a bang.

Strange makes no comment, but Tony never invited him to the wedding. “Cold,” Strange says with his usual pithy. “Significantly colder than anywhere near the North Pole. Even this time of year.”

Gentlemen, the wonder of hemispheres. No matter where you stand, there’s always an opposite. North and South. In a contrary mood, Tony adds, “I can think of colder.” Outer space.

“Have you got hold of Wong?” Strange changes the subject with some reticence. Testing the ice, as though he doesn’t quite know how to ask. Someone used to solving his own problems. “This is -”

“Bad timing,” Tony quips. And hard to resist. Embracing his weaknesses, puns and habits.

A slight smile forms, transforming Strange’s face from merely serious to contemplative. Magic. “Inconvenient, for now. The long-term effects are uncertain.” His gaze turns upwards, the ceiling, the sky, like an astronomer, and Tony forgets to blink. “How far can time stretch?” Strange muses. Doesn’t say, _and one man bend with it_. He continues, quietly, “Looking at all those images. I lived through these various -” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I end the loop, the loop ends. It doesn’t. The rest of the world moves forward.”

With Strange adrift. Tony is supposed to pull him ashore. “Do you trust me?” he asks. Casually, as if it makes no difference, what some critical surgeon thinks about him. Why should he care?

“Enough to trade half the universe,” Strange scoffs, dusting the wrinkles off his shirt. “Myself included. Don’t be obtuse. It’s unbecoming.”

What’s becoming? Tony’s mind jumps to the plan they haven’t discussed. Strange saw enough of the odds and ends, or he went all in on a feeling. Minutes ticking down to mass death, he had to have ice in his veins. Wasn’t worry on his face. Wasn’t even defeat. Resignation. Strange knew exactly what was coming, what it meant - and not from the personal IMAX screening.

Stood aside, to be continued. Or not. Strange slumped on the ground, whatever. Semantics.

If Tony’s hit the bull’s-eye, and he’s not Hawkeye, but his marksmanship is on point. Not half as on point as he is when he shoots words, ideas, questions. Which means, in plain English, that Tony is rarely wrong about the facts.

“You died.” Words heavy, tone deceptively light.

Thing is, Tony has brushed shoulders with death. Plenty of times. He lacks, so far, the actual experience. Not feeling his body give up. Not imagining he’s dying because he can’t breathe. Falling through space, trapped in a too-fast, too-slow second. And then – nothing. Game over.

“Of course, I’ve –” Strange falls silent, close to unravelling something he never meant to reveal. He presses his lips together. A thin, unhappy line. Could mean anything. An experience he doesn’t like to think about. Swept under a rug that keeps moving, the dust and the dirt. Tony wouldn’t know anything about that. Mean nothing at all. A man who never shows his hand. His eyes are inscrutable. When he speaks again, there’s something very measured about it. “You know what happened.”

“Hmm,” Tony agrees reluctantly. “You trusted me, because you had to. The only way, right? Maybe I wasn’t talking about Titan.” Strange flings himself into danger. Like Tony, and worse. Which is either exactly what a doctor is supposed to do, saving lives with no thought for his own, or the exact opposite, endangering himself recklessly. And suffering for it.

Strange doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he says shortly. “I do.”

A weird feeling settles into Tony’s chest. That someone who knows so little about him - or? Fourteen _million_ plays on Titan. Poor odds for saving the world. More than enough evidence of what made someone tick. Even Rhodey knows not to trust Tony unconditionally. Peter is too young to know better. But Strange, who literally held the fate of the universe in his unsteady hands. Who was a neurosurgeon, which meant people trusted _him_. An all-around responsible citizen, aside from that near-fatal instance of distracted driving. He trusted Tony to make good decisions. Take the right action. And still, for some incomprehensible reason, does. Didn’t get the memo that Tony doesn’t trust himself.

“Good.” There’s some emotion in his voice. “Great. Super. Excellent.” He covers it. “The wizard next door to, uh, a really high mountain spilled the beans on some things. Have an idea.” He pauses for effect. Holds eye contact, until it becomes awkward. One, two, three. “Physical shock. Like slapping someone in hysterics.”

“Not what the doctor would order,” Strange points out with a healthy dose of scepticism. “Nor a particularly flattering simile. However.” He takes a deep breath. “Seeing as I am in a predicament, I’ll take any suggestion. Or action.” And then, the key, “Do what you like. Anything. Just stay away from my hands. I may still need them.” Hiding his weakness by revealing it in part. A definite tell.

What about Tony’s hands? Touch. Work. He should do something about that. Never lets his friends suffer, though he and Strange aren’t friends. Not in the way the Avengers formed around him and Steve, takeout and hangouts. Does Strange do anything casually? There’s a feeling Tony can’t let go of. Strange is avoiding people, but specifically Tony. So, no. They don’t get along as effortlessly as he and Bruce once did, too busy trading insults. But there’s also something else, difficult for Tony to put his finger on. Hints of respect, even on Tony’s side.

The thought comes as a surprise. For all his impatience with Tony’s antics, not being that sort of a doctor either, Strange would never have fallen asleep while listening to him. Call it a gut feeling. His senses are so hyperfocused he doesn’t know how to relax. A mirror to Tony’s manic tinkering, a dog with a bone, but instead of building, Strange immersed himself in – books. Medicine. Magic. Yoga? Was that the wrong side of the border?

Line in the sand. Pick one friend over another. Leave a few scars. Steve turned out to be more right about Bucky than not. That isn’t the issue.

A lie of omission is a lie. Misleading. Manipulative. Maybe Steven and Stephen have something in common there. But Tony doubts Strange would’ve kept _that_ secret. Rugged beard, polished shield. Straight from the 1940s, Steve Rogers is still the kind of man whose word means everything. If he hasn’t given you his word - that’s the loop hole right there. No wonder Steve clashed with him. Tony’s early 21st-century morals were flexible, ever-changing, but sometimes surprisingly fixed. Strange? A fussy neurosurgeon, making the big bucks. Despite his wake-up call, Tony remains a cynic. Strange, elite surgeon, a secret idealist.

Maybe that’s the pull. A negative force needs a positive one. Is there anything less selfish than dying for the entire planet? When the cameras were off. The grand prize for saving the world: PTSD.

And now. Anything. Strange should’ve locked his doors better. Should’ve invested his money more wisely. Because wow. To loose absolutely everything, fortune and fame and friends, that fast speaks of carelessness. Desperation. Worse survival instincts than Tony’s.

Strange keeps his secrets to himself. Tony’s throat feels dry. “Okay,” he says, get the show on the road. “Can’t tickle yourself. Can’t scare yourself when you’ve got the hiccups. The element of surprise.”

“Surprise me already,” Strange counters, dangerously provocative.

Do something. Tony wants to. There’s a disconnect. The fuse. Tony knows how to fix that. He wants. Strange to. He wants to -

Prove him wrong. That’s it. That’s definitely it. Move along. Strange thinks Tony is finally going to go for that punch. Kick him off his legs. Shock him with the suit. But he’s also someone whose best case scenario was everyone else’s worst case scenario. He was willing to experience pain for a needle in a haystack. Something about needles and camels. And rich men. Tony set himself up for rejection. Strange ditched physio for a magic cure. Found the magic, not the cure.

Which means that Strange is prepared for it. He knows pain. It’s not going to work. There’s the childish desire to trip him on his own cloak, be done with it. Except. The Cloak isn’t busy cuddling Strange. Isn’t even watching over him. It’s gone, off to some shadowy corner. To give them space. Privacy? Has more sense than him and Strange combined. The Sanctum is starting to resemble a deserted town in a Western, preparing for a duel. It’s warm somewhere, outside, hot even, but the Compound’s cool. So is the Sanctum, AC or not. The swirling dust is far away, but a drop of sweat falls down Tony’s forehead. His palms are sticky.

Tony closes his eyes. He remembers the freezing water in Afghanistan. With some distance, after Thanos, ashes and the end of the world, but it’s there. A world before and after Iron Man. New York. Ultron. The Accords. Snap. Return.

Opens them again. Strange is still there, watchful. Waiting. He has a long neck, like a bird, a crane. What does that mean? Tony hasn’t noticed his neck before. Or maybe that isn’t true, with the ridiculous popped collar he usually wears.

What’s worse than blunt force? Being betrayed by a colleague or friend, an ally. Your partner, the budding supervillain. Tony ended up with a guy digging inside his chest, awful and invasive. Couldn’t move. Freefalling through darkness. Couldn’t move. Trapped underwater. Couldn’t move. Friend beating you, you’re beating him. Can’t move. He’s trapped in his suit. Tony will die in the suit designed to protect him. The final nail in the coffin. His suit is a coffin. And Strange speaks up -

_Tony?_

 _Tony._

_Breathe._

Doctor Strange hasn’t lost his touch. His soothing tone guiding him slowly, steadily back. An aural lighthouse. Tony feels dizzy. He turns away from Strange, not unlike a kid who’s done with the conversation. “Fine.” He bites his lip. “It’s fine. It’s, you know.”

He’s a doctor. He knows.

“Give me a sec.” Tony’s heartbeat slows down. Everything returns to normal. Whatever normal is.

Strange stands there, a silent presence. The man in Tony’s nightmares, behind some of them. A ghost that could vanish at any moment. And right then, Tony feels such an intense, nauseating bitterness that he could choke on it. Strange made everything better, a doctor who knows what he’s doing, but he also made everything worse. Everyone else became collateral damage, pieces off the board.

Left Tony, a pawn.

It’s unfair. Petty. Plain wrong. Strange more than sort of saved the world. And it haunts him, too. But if Strange hadn’t worn his pretty necklace around his pretty neck. Hadn’t been kidnapped (tortured). Tony wouldn’t have gone after him. Wouldn’t have disappointed Pep. If Strange hadn’t given him the Stone, Thanos wouldn’t have killed half the planet. Tony wouldn’t have seen Peter die, _god_. Wouldn’t have been a complete mess afterwards. He’d be married. Thinking about having his own kid. If, a dead end.

Maybe he should hit Strange, get it out of his system. Besides, Wong told him to. Strange told him, ridiculously wrong and ridiculously right at the same time. E for excellent. F for failure. He promised to guard the Stone, Tony and Peter be damned. Tony could even understand that, weighing one life, two, against billions. And then he didn’t. Plot twist. Guy gives up everything for you, chooses death. For himself. Everyone else. It was a lousy deal, one Tony never would’ve signed.

“Maybe we should -” Strange sighs, at a loss. As if he doesn’t even care. And Tony, _Tony_ wants to knock some sense into him.

Shouldn’t. For an intelligent man, Strange was stupid to trust Tony. He is stupid to trust Tony, his track record. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t know if it’s going to work, but what it’s supposed to do. The required effect. If this doesn’t ground him -

Tony raises a thumb to his throat, not thinking any further. It’s a movement that could precede violence. It’s only a touch. Light, tentative.

Check. Mate.

Strange doesn’t move, doesn’t protest, doesn’t shake off his hands, letting Tony’s fingers wrap around his throat with no force at all. He can change his mind. Tony can change his mind. His heart is racing. All Strange does is look at him, encouraging Tony to finish what he started. Or Strange did, Tony isn’t sure anymore. Stephen. The name, familiar and strange. The situation, hazy, strange. Tony can feel his pulse, beating with life. If this goes wrong?

Permission given, Tony presses his hands around Strange’s neck. And he squeezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains: feelings of panic; consensual violence (choking)


	5. Chapter 5

STEPHEN

( _You’re full of tricks, wizard._ Tricks, tricks, tricks.)

He’s falling through time. When he opens his eyes, there’s no Thanos. No butterflies. He recognises his surroundings: the room, his bed. It’s day, persistent rays of light finding their way into the shadowy corners of the Sanctum. He must have slept for a while, longer than the few uninterrupted hours on a good night. It feels as though he’s woken up from a coma. To a new life.

Rebirth, not rejuvenation. He gets up from the bed too quickly. Sways before finding his balance, head groggy, senses dull. He’s wearing casual clothes. The Cloak is nowhere to be found.

He doesn’t like being out of the loop. The thought of not knowing. It’s the doctor in him, and the man. Waking up confused isn’t unheard of, but the fog doesn’t seem to lift, clouding everything. There are rarely good reasons for not remembering what happened the day before. What day it is.

Has he suffered a blow to the head? He dismisses the idea. Passing out, then waking up, no consequences, resembles a primetime drama. Not that he had time to watch any. A neurosurgeon should know better, though he supposes memory loss qualifies as a consequence. Not exactly trivial, whether a side effect or symptom. He’s never suffered a blackout like this. One of the few times in his adult life he has blurred, fragmentary, no memories of is the immediate aftermath of the accident, when he lost consciousness.

Slowly, he changes into his usual clothes, becoming himself, piece by piece. Like a surgeon’s scrubs, the robes are a familiar uniform. Still blue. A cursory glance in the mirror, and he’s ready to face the world. Its mysteries.

To his surprise, he finds an unaccompanied Tony Stark - or. Feet on the sofa, busying himself with holographic images, the Cloak of Levitation peeking over his shoulder. It’s an unusually domestic scene that stirs something in his chest. Tony is the unexpected element, but nothing about his presence seems out of place. Two contradictory sensations tug at Stephen’s sleeves. A grounding sensation, as if the axis of his planet had the wrong tilt, but has shifted back to the right angle. Disorientation, because he doesn’t understand any of it. Stark isn’t a particularly well-adjusted man. He’s not a close friend. There’s no reason for Stephen to be comforted by the sight of him. No reason for Stark to spend time at the Sanctum. No reason at all. Perplexed, Stephen can think of nothing to say.

Without looking up, Stark selects a track to play. Very 1998, 2000. Years when Stephen was shaping into the doctor he’d become known as. Shooting for the stars, not the cosmos, in a time without magic. Superheroes. Infinity Stones. Twenty years, but several lifetimes ago. The Cloak tumbles around, a happy whirlwind. Stark turns towards him. “You, I’d go with classical music. Not millennial Eurodance.”

“It’s an ancient relic,” he remarks, throat tight. He needs something. A glass of water. His hands shake lightly. Every decision, every action requires effort. “Two decades behind is practically on time. Besides, it has a will of its own.”

“That’s called begging for it, Gandalf. Galadriel? Suit yourself.” Stark’s gaze lingers on Stephen’s shoulders. There must be a purpose to it. Blithely, he says, “Strange taste.”

He should find himself a chair. “Someone disagrees with you. Half of Europe. Quite a few Americans.” And then, without thinking about what he’s saying, what it reveals about him, his mind, the kind of impression he gives, Stephen continues, “Peaked at number six. January 29, 2000. Billboard Hot 100.”

“You’re on.” Stark’s skilled, practiced hands move fast. At a pace Stephen used to text, type, perform many actions. In retrospect, it’s ironic that he took his hands for granted, when his livelihood depended on them. An engineer, an artist. He should’ve considered extra insurance, not bought the Lamborghini. Cars, a questionable investment. Even when you didn’t drive off a cliff, into water. But no one imagines a career cut short at forty. Permanent injury. Disability. Least of all Stephen Strange.

“Huh,” Stark interrupts his thoughts. “Doctor Strange. Wizard of Oz. Walking encyclopedia of music trivia.” He throws Stephen a sharp, observant glance. “Or everything?”

“Good memory,” Stephen tells him in a deliberately neutral tone, which doesn’t affirm or deny anything. He takes a careful step towards the closest armchair. “What’s going on?”

There are dozens of reasonable explanations. They may have fought together, but against what foe? And although his mind and body are drained, he doesn’t feel like he’s used his magic. A party, but what occasion? A night of drinking. The most ridiculous thought, he wonders where it comes from, is nothing to dwell on.

They haven’t. Have they.

They don’t even _like_ each other. Not strictly necessary, especially for a rebound.

Stephen doesn’t remember inviting Tony there, but then, he doesn’t remember anything. Disconcerting, because he remembers everything. If he wanted to, he could access two thousand variations of the loop with Dormammu. Fourteen million timelines. Hidden files that exist.

Something weighs on Tony, making him second-guess himself. Stark, the type to think as fast as he talks, rapid fire, ask questions while shooting. When he speaks, it has the impact of a bullet, “Didn’t strangle you unconscious. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

Whatever Stephen assumed Tony would tell him, this isn’t it. He resists moving a hand to his neck. Tries to keep his poker face. Fails. He recalls that he promised Wong he’d look in later, but has difficulty placing when that was. When now is. The Cloak appears curiously pleased to see him, but it’s holding back, giving him space, ready to sprint to his side if need be. Catch him as he falls, and - Stark rises from the sofa. Stephen holds up a hand, it’s all right. He grips the armrest and sits down. “I wasn’t thinking anything.”

Tony’s hands around his throat. He doesn’t know how to decipher that.

Really.

Lightheaded, he breathes out. If he faints, he’s already sitting down. Not thinking. A lie, for when isn’t he thinking? The truth is, his mind is blank. He has his knowledge left, he’s sure of it. His past before whatever happened, happened. His early years. His years as a surgeon. Kamar-Taj. Titan. What’s occurred since. He has his magic, he thinks, when he’s strong enough to access it. There’s about a day missing. Or has it been longer? He remembers getting up. After which, a whirlpool. A black hole.

Stark’s eyes meet his. Big and expressive, pouring concern. Stark isn’t unconcerned about others. He remembers him on Titan. He’s witnessed him care for Peter Parker. But he doesn’t see why Stark should concern himself with him, amnesia or not. What he’s doing in what’s effectively Stephen’s home, waiting for him to wake up. Another good question.

“You collapsed.” For a moment, Stark seems utterly lost. “From exhaustion.”

He has no memory of that.

“Slept about twenty hours?” Stark checks the time. Says, with a shrug, “There’s pizza, by the way. Figured you’d be hungry after your Around the World in Eighty Hours. You don’t keep your cupboards stocked. Plus I was starving. Don’t exactly run on granola.”

“Before that?” His voice is small. He isn’t used to being out of his element, wrong-footed. And he feels incredibly out of it, as if he’s been asleep for days. Sluggish, almost drugged, though he doesn’t seriously think that’s happened.

“You time-hopped into my kitchen yesterday. Princess Leia. Distress call.” There’s a seriousness to Stark, despite his words. “Any bells?”

_Tony, it was the ~~only -~~_

Distant dreams. His nails dig into his fingers, and he returns to the present. Tiredly, he shakes his head.

Stark hovers awkwardly over him. “Wow. Someone took a hit to the head. For the record, that wasn’t me.” He sits down, a doctor at his patient’s side, delivering the diagnosis. “You disappeared on me a couple of times. Looping. So, decided to pay your flying friend here a visit.” Stark nods towards the Cloak. “And Wong, who couldn’t actually help. Suggested physical force.” Stark looks uncomfortable at that. “Uh. You pretty much expected a blow. Or a kick. Was supposed to be unexpected. Shock the system, you know? Reboot. Guess I should’ve punched you, after all. Electricity.”

Delaying the punchline, if not the punch, Stark pauses. Clears his throat. “Grabbed your neck. You shouldn’t have let me. I wouldn’t have.” He’s tripping over his own sentences. “Messed up. Doesn’t have to be, but. Not doing that again.” With an accusing note, he adds, “If that’s your idea of a trust exercise? You’re supposed to be wiser, Doctor. Sure, well played. Bravo.” His handsome features twist into a grimace. “Except you were all over it, no pain, no gain, before you knew.”

Stephen is too dazed to make sense of the outburst. Who should apologise. What for. It worked. “I should thank you.” He speaks haltingly, words lagging behind his thoughts, lagging behind something else. “For saving my magical ass.”

Stark quirks a smile at the joke, the echo. “Hear you saved the world. More than once.” His voice is casual, but there’s a telling undertone Stephen isn’t sure how to interpret. Maybe just a been there, done that, T-shirt got lost in the mail.

Briefly, Stephen considers if they could ever have run into each other, back when he practiced medicine, not sorcery. He would remember it. Tony would have no reason to remember him. He knows a lot of about Tony, things he can’t express. He isn’t one for sympathy or gratitude. He’s thankful for the help, of course. Though his adventures took place on Earth, he thinks, he has an inkling not all of them were pleasant. But he’s been through worse. They all have. So much worse.

They didn’t talk after Titan. They couldn’t; there was nothing left of Stephen but ashes.

They didn’t talk after his return. There were more pressing problems to solve.

He should go see Wong, as promised. Tony’s eyes are dark and beautiful, surprisingly soulful. Captivating. He wonders if Tony ever needs someone to talk to. If Stephen touched him, could he sense it? With his fingertips, like magic. Loneliness, perilously close to the surface. “Didn’t leave a mark.” He hardly noticed his neck in the mirror. But he’d feel it. The bruise. “I’m sure I goaded you into it,” he admits quietly. He tends to have that effect on people.

“Right. We’re cool.” Tony’s smile is genuine, uncertain. “Pizza for breakfast? Missed Sunday brunch.”

“Maybe later. You don’t have to stick around,” Stephen assures him. Out of misplaced guilt. Or worse, pity.

He’s painfully aware that Stark regards him as a sometime colleague, if that. He’s had relatively few dealings with the Avengers. If anyone extended a hand in his direction, it was pure pragmatism, a social nicety, which had little to do with Stephen himself. He knows he can be difficult. So can Stark. Nevertheless, there’s a sympathetic aura to him, which attracts people, makes them like him. No one would accuse Stephen of being likeable, not even Wong. A hard man to like is a hard man to be friends with. Is a hard man to love.

They have too much in common – and not enough. He’s not a superhero. He doesn’t have the public identity of one. Doctor Stephen Strange didn’t become a new person, adopting an identity like Iron Man or Captain America. A genius who invented his own supertech, built himself a shell. A man given superstrength. A teenager whose abilities took him on a new path. A scientist who learned to live beside a raging giant. He set out to cure an incurable injury. And didn’t manage that.

He learned to fight by studying, as hard as he did in med school, failure not an option. Perhaps he hasn’t changed at all, or enough. Late in the game, he wanted a way out. He wanted to go home. Climb down the mountain and back the ladder to his old life, no matter how far he’d fallen. He chose differently. This is his duty now, _his_ duty, and he takes it as seriously as he did his medical profession.

“Everything’s fine. Thanks for stepping in. Sorry to have bothered you.” He sounds stilted and formal, or simply weary. In a minute, he’s going to drag himself upstairs, into bed, go back to sleep. He’s used enough of Iron Man’s time. Of Stark’s.

Tony lets out a startled laugh. “You’re so bad at this,” he declares, relishing the thought. “For being a really, really smart guy. That what happens when you hang out with magical objects?” The Cloak makes a turn like a huff, but Stark says, soothingly, “Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” He turns his attention back to Stephen. “Or were you always this bad at interacting with walking, talking human beings?”

It’s none of Stark’s business. He battles conflicting thoughts, cutting remarks: _you only alienated half your team_. Protesting that Doctor Strange knew everyone in his field. Ergo, a social circle. Which ignores the fact that he can count two friends, one of them a sentient cloak. Stark’s friends include A.I. he built himself and a high schooler. Pseudo-parenting robots and children isn’t Stephen’s idea of good company. Or a mentally stimulating conversation.

A few memories. On the grand scale of things, it’s barely a sacrifice. He has memories for hundreds of lifetimes.

“It’s not pity,” Tony states, expression thoughtful.

“What is it, then? Why the interest?” It comes out sharper than he meant to, defensive. He suddenly finds himself angry that they haven’t talked. Most of the blame falls on his own shoulders. Consciously or unconsciously, he has avoided Tony. He doesn’t know how to explain himself. He doesn’t want to explain himself. Face Tony. Face anyone. His connection to the Avengers is vague and indeterminate. Earth and space he leaves largely to them; other dimensions he keeps for himself.

He recalls Tony’s devastated face, when he offered Thanos the Stone. It really was the best, if not the only way. Here they are, in this timeline. Both of them breathing. Tony knowing things about Stephen that he himself doesn’t. What a difference a day makes.

“You’re pretty interesting,” Tony counters, patent flattery and flirtatiousness, as though Stephen should be charmed by his attention. A part of him is. Tony has the ability to make the person he addresses feel they are at the centre of the world. Stephen, who left the spotlight long ago, isn’t unaffected. “Who gives up a lucrative medical career that wins him awards? For dubious magical powers.” Even star surgeons, rock stars of the hospital, need solid ground under their feet. He didn’t find that in Nepal.

“There was nothing to give up.” It’s plainly a lie. He could’ve done something. Frankly, he could’ve done anything. But in his pride, his pain, he could only think, what was the point in research, when he couldn’t perform surgeries in practice? What was the point in practicing medicine, if he couldn’t be a surgeon? Climbing and giving up, before reaching the mountain top. He pushed himself on, not caring whether it was a bad decision, lack of oxygen, which got you killed.

(What was the point - and this thought he has never shared - of _anything_ any longer?)

“Everyone else pales next to you.” Their issues. Their accomplishments, or their egos. How did his head fit into his helmet, he challenged Stark, annoyed and injured. But there was truth to it, a different truth. Stark has a presence that is somehow larger than life. Unlike Stephen, in the shadows, his decisions are subject to public scrutiny. Not an easy life, however carefree the persona on display is.

Tony stays silent, acknowledging that he’s pretty interesting, too. Thinking about whatever else, twelve moves ahead. Not a doctor, focused on the present, the aftermath, the outcome. Playing a completely different board, a different game. Eventually, he says, “You don’t remember, and that bugs you.” Tables turned, Tony has the upper hand, but there's nothing mocking in his tone. In fact, Tony’s behaviour is gently reassuring. Aware of what it’s like, when your mind isn’t your own. “A: It’s normal. B: You’re a classic control freak. C: I can help jog your memory.” An emotion passes over his face, gone in instant. “Not a rehash. I can give you the 411.”

“Please do,” he agrees hoarsely.

“Just another magic Monday.” Tony grins, but his amusement is inclusive. “Okay, I’ll get down to the details. First, Stephen, question.”

The use of his first name, he notes with a nervous beat. If Stark became Tony on Titan, after Stephen came to know him, see _him_ , he has always been Doctor, Strange. They’re not friends, but Tony is signalling they could be. Something. A connection forming as they’re talking. It was cemented earlier, sealed on Titan.

He wouldn’t have said no.

“Strawberries,” Tony speaks with emphasis. A sign, a symbol. If his world wasn’t spinning again, Stephen could probably work it out. Dizzy, he focuses on Tony, his chest. One, two. “Champagne. What’s your take?”

“I don’t -” Out of the blue, the question makes no sense, until his mind grasps the likely context. He frowns. “Is that an invitation?”

“Pretty Woman combination,” says Tony, hints of something.

Well, he recognises that one. Puzzled, vexed, he objects, “Given the financial realities, did you compare me to a –”

Tony backtracks, “Maybe I’m the wild ride from Hollywood Hills. You’re the long-suffering, grey-haired gentleman with vertigo. No? Okay. No West Coast.” Uncomfortably close to sympathy, “No cars.”

What files has Stark read on Stephen? The conversation takes an absurd turn. He feels absurd and foolish. Should head for an exit. Or better yet, leave Stark be. He can find his way out. Stephen hasn’t been a social butterfly in years. Being a full-time sorcerer, worse for his personal life than being a neurosurgeon, when he at least associated with colleagues, and it was easy to act superior. Even then, he sometimes felt like the loneliest person in the room. Professional arrogance can hide so many other things.

“This -” Whatever Stark is playing at. “Isn’t a game.” He isn’t a project to be fixed, salvaged. Neither is Tony. Between them, damaged hands and crushed hopes, a future snatched away, Stephen isn’t sure what to expect. What Tony wants from him. An apology?

“Nope,” Tony answers cheerfully. On some level, it isn’t a joke at all, but the most natural follow-up in the world. A man, if not speaking from the heart, at least going with his gut instinct.

 _It’s not about you_ , says the voice in his memory. It isn’t, in medicine or magic. He failed to see that, the big picture, until he was bombarded with images. How’s that for ego death? And yet, the most important lesson, he’s beginning to understand, may be harder than letting go of his pride. His fear, not of death. Not anymore. This, why is this so difficult? Allowing himself to ask. To accept.

He looks Tony in the eye. Heart skipping another beat, he finally reaches out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains: memory loss (~24 hours)

**Author's Note:**

> Ch. 3 note 2/12/18 - The connection to chess was always there ( _endgame_ , [this](http://3bino3.tumblr.com/post/173607038450/14000605th-game) IW fanart), but at some point, I came across [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/74fbbe05cbcc8d662a30e894d7161c6c/tumblr_inline_pae6mtCLix1syxoxu_500.jpg) image (from [this](http://duskybatfishgirl.tumblr.com/post/174930587281/why-do-you-prefer-doctor-strange-to-all-numerous) post) - which, yes. Playing against death, literally and figuratively.


End file.
